More fun with typos

On CNN.com recently, an article made a reference to "sexual morays." I knew those eels were up to something.

Over at Facebook, a friend of a friend wrote about a "heroine addict." Apparently, that's someone who's obsessed with Wonder Woman.

In a real estate ad for a rural property, the copy said, "Bring the animal." Let's hope they meant pets, because that's no way to talk about another person's husband.

Not a typo, exactly, but there was the story about the baby porcupine who was "orphaned and imprinted on humans." Ouch.

FIREPOWER is here

Available now on Kindle (and soon in other
e-book formats): My new thriller FIREPOWER.

I've already put a few titles (including my all-time bestselling book, LONELY STREET) on Kindle, and e-books offer a perfect venue for a timely novel in which the villains are backed by Big Oil.

FIREPOWER is the story of a hitman called Bob who's sent to kill a Silicon Valley scientist. Alice Porter has invented a new hydrogen fuel cell that threatens to make oil obsolete. The bad guys want her gone.

FIREPOWER is only $2.99. Click here.

You don't need a Kindle to read it. The Kindle app is available free for computers and smart phones.

Coming soon . . . FIREPOWER

Sonny's busy gaze roamed the room, finally settled on the coffee table between them.

"Hey, Bob. How come you always wear cowboy boots?"

"I'm no cowboy, if that's what you mean. But I grew up wearing boots."

Bob looked at his feet up on the coffee table. Plain brown boots, scuffed around their tapered toes. Latest in a long line of serviceable shitkickers.

"They some kind of exotic leather?" Sonny asked.

"If you think 'cow' is exotic."

"I thought maybe you were one of those guys who collects different kinds of boots. Got a whole closet full at home. Python and ostrich hide. Shark."

"I'm not a nut for them. I just like boots. They're comfortable."

"But to work in? How do you run in them?"

"I don't run much."

Sonny gave him a prison-yard squint. "You're a bad man. You're too tough to run."

"I just don't like it much. I prefer sitting around. If I wanted to be on my feet all day, I'd be a mailman."

"Sometimes you gotta run," Sonny said. "Things get fucked up. Sometimes running's the best thing."

Bob took the Beretta out of his jacket's deep inside pocket, started screwing on his suppressor, too.

"See these babies?" Sonny turned his feet on the coffee table so Bob could admire his red-and-black Air Jordans. "That's superior footwear right there. Two hundred and sixty bucks."

"Hell, you can get three pair of boots for that."

"Yeah, but I can run faster and jump higher. Things get fucked up? I'll be first one over the fence."

Bob chewed on that a second, then said, "Things get that fucked, I've got to run?"

"Yeah?"

"Boots won't make a difference. Tie bricks to my feet, it won't matter. I'll be a running motherfucker."

"Maybe the other guy's wearing a nice pair of running shoes. Some cop, in good shape, younger than you. He'll chase your ass down."

"I hope he does it quick. Then I'll pop a cap in him, get it over with."

"He might pop you first."

"Either way, I won't have to run around no more."

Coming soon . . . FIREPOWER

Plano, Texas
6:04 p.m. Friday

Red and gold leaves gusted along the asphalt streets, a stampede of confetti, the only color in a lifeless landscape of lumpy-oatmeal stucco and petrochemical siding and plain gray concrete under a low gray sky.

"Fucking suburbs."

From behind the wheel of the stolen Oldsmobile, Sonny Tharp said, "What's that, Bob?"

Sonny's chin was slashed crosswise by his trademark scar, his French Quarter souvenir. He was a few years younger than Bob, maybe thirty, still an exercise nut and a fresh-air fiend. His elbow hung out the window, and the chill breeze riffled his black hair.

Bob's brown suede jacket was zipped to his chin, but his ears were freezing. He wanted Sonny to roll up the fucking window, but they'd had that argument before. Better frozen ears than ears full of Sonny.

"Suburbs all look the same," Bob shouted over the Cajun music honking from the radio. "We're officially in Plano, but it could be any neighborhood in the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex. Could be Richardson. Could be Arlington."

Sonny glanced at the passing houses. "Could be Houston."

"Sure. Could be California, this time of year."

"A rare cloudy day in Phoenix."

"Nah. In Phoenix, they'd put cactus everywhere, remind you how the place looked before they bulldozed it."

"Cactus." Sonny grimaced. "Those fucking yuccas."

"Developers rip everything out, then put it back again, re-arranged. The cacti are like hunting trophies. 'Congratulations to us. We tamed these fuckers and took their land.' They might as well put dead Indians out on the lawn."

"Indians?"

"That's why they call it 'native' landscaping."

Sonny slowed, checking a green street sign in the fading light. "You're a deep guy, Bob."

"I pay attention." Bob scratched at his week-old whiskers. "I try to think about things. See how they make me feel."

"That's good," Sonny said. "A rich inner life is a healthy thing."

"Up yours."

Accidental birdwatcher

We spend a lot of time on our covered patio, enjoying the outdoors morning and evening, and we've become quite involved with an extended family of California quail.

There's a greenbelt right behind our back wall, so we get lots of birds in the yard, but these quail have become regular fixtures. They nest in our neighbor's yard and they roost at night in the live oak behind our wall. Every morning around dawn, the quail flutter out of the oak onto the concrete wall, which they use as a sidewalk.

Kelly shot that photo a few months ago. The quail clan is now up to three generations, and we counted nine juveniles on the fence the other day.

The adults have crests that are shaped like question marks. Looks like they're always wondering about something. They also round up the troops with a call that sounds like "Where are you? Where are you?" Which cracks us up.

Being ground birds, the quail aren't very good flyers. Footballs with stubby wings. Which makes the walking wall all the more attractive to them. After foraging every day, the adult quail round up the young'uns and head back for another night in the live oak.

And I'm on the patio, watching.

Fun with typos

More hilarity from Craigslist real estate ads:

--"Just steppes away from the beach!" (That sounds really far.)

--"Bedroom is large enough to hold California King Bad."

You can now start referring to me as King Bad of California. Thank you.

Crowing from the (almost) empty nest

You know what I haven't been doing lately? Back-to-school shopping. Bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha.

Our youngest started this week at Shasta College, but he didn't need any new school supplies or clothes. He had a pen, and he wore his usual hippie rags. We threw some money at him as he headed out the door, and that was about it. He stays at our house some nights, but that's temporary. He's pretty much on his own.

As most of you know, Kel and I are trying to take advantage of our emptier nest by selling our beautiful home in Redding, CA. (Price reduced to $400,000! For slide show, click here.) As soon as the house sells, we're moving to a place by the beach in Santa Cruz. Why? Here's why:

(I don't know the photographer, but he's got lots of awesome aerials at his website. Check it out.)

But enough gloating. For you poor souls who still have kids in school, check out the Home Front archives for a few laughs, including this column about back-to-school shopping. Enjoy!

Kool

Love this: In today's local newspaper, there's a 50th anniversary notice for a Shingletown couple named Flora and Phil Dill. You have to read to nearly the end to get the best part -- their children are named Kash and Kerri.

I guess if your last name is Dill, you come with a sense of humor built right in.

Last chance for bargain books!

The closet isn't empty yet, so I'll make a final call for my once-in-a-lifetime autographed book special.

The paperbacks are nearly all gone, but I still have hardcovers of the hilarious Bubba Mabry adventures "Witchy Woman," "Shaky Ground," "Dirty Pool" and "Monkey Man," as well as a few hardcovers of my comic bank-heist caper "Fool's Paradise." All titles $15 each, postage included, during this limited-time offer.

I'm happy to personalize the autographs for gifts, etc. Inquiries/orders should go to my g-mail address: abqbrewer@gmail.com.

Thanks!

Book bargains galore!

Low, low prices on autographed books by Steve Brewer!

As we continue to shrink our household to fit into a two-bedroom beach cottage, I must empty a closet of the accumulated inventory of my own books. I've got extras of most of my 16 titles in that closet, and I'll sell them for less-than-list prices (including free shipping!). These bargains are available for a limited time (until that closet is empty).

Available paperbacks include "Lonely Street" (basis for the motion picture of the same name) and "Baby Face." Hardcovers include "Dirty Pool," "Shaky Ground," "Witchy Woman" and more. For descriptions of my books, go to http://www.stevebrewer.us.com/.

For prices and available titles in this once-in-a-lifetime closet sale, send e-mail to abqbrewer@gmail.com.